


Xenoglossy

by heartratemonitor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Chronic Fatigue, Dreams and Nightmares, Food mention, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 18:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20952569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartratemonitor/pseuds/heartratemonitor
Summary: Ferdinand attempts to help Linhardt with his sleepiness, and Linhardt invents a language for espionage.





	Xenoglossy

Ferdinand ties the satchel of herbs to his belt, and promises to deliver them to Linhardt. Their teacher has taken one task too many the past week, but her face does not betray worry, nor much of anything, usually. It’s flattering that she trusted him enough with the task as opposed to any of the idling students, though the back of his mind suspects that he was simply the first who was available.

Lazy fingers idle by the bag knots- Linhardt is likely in his room for an afternoon nap. It should be simple enough: Knock, deliver, leave. He’s not in the mood for another chase, or several exercises in futility to goad his classmate into the training grounds. Their relationship is amicable enough; no rivalry, nor the vague sensation of thumbtacks in his throat when attempting conversation. He can already picture the exchange: a harmless backhanded compliment, a thank you, and an insistent goodbye.

Ferdinand stops by the entrance, knuckles hovering over the wood when he hears singing. It is faint, and not any language he knows. The sound is languid rain against sleepy rooftops, and he freezes, distinctly aware of his trespass on intimate property. A few more seconds then, the boy rationalizes, like chasing fading light, before rapping two solid knocks.

“Come in,” says the voice on the other side of the door, with a downward lilt indicating disapproval. 

He enters. Linhardt has removed his outer jacket and slung it over a bedpost, and hunches over by his desk, a good portion of his living area littered with seemingly difficult books. His sleeves gather slightly past his elbow, the fabric littered with ink stains. Ferdinand’s eyes skim a bedside table heaped with lavender bundles; neatly gathered and out of place from the rest of his surroundings.

“What’s the occasion to humble me with your presence?” he asks with a gentle smile. Ferdinand can’t find it in him to be offended.

“The professor told me to deliver this to you,” he says, offering the package. “Steep two grams in boiling water for ten minutes into a tisane before bed. It should help with some of the tiredness. If you need more, ask her in the greenhouse.”

“How kind.” Linhardt leaves the bag with the scattered lavender buds, then tilts his head. “You look like you disagree with this.”

“Ah,” Ferdinand stumbles. “I’m not entirely sure if the professor is too familiar with Valerian root, but I suggest using it sparingly. It can be habit forming.”

“I’m familiar with it,” he replies, mouth a thin, polite line. “Thank you for the gift.”

“No worries, my friend.”

He’s not brave enough to ask any more of his school mate, so he is quick to leave. The day passes without incident. Horses remain agreeable and the sun doesn’t fall out of his socket until he is fast asleep. 

The burning ball floats in an endless stretch of murky water, like a gleaming apple washed into a blackening tide. In this dream, Ferdinand floats impotently, jetsam in the mud colored sea. He washes ashore on an island sparsely dotted with dead trees, stands despite his sea legs, and walks towards the faint sound of singing.

* * *

He and Linhardt are the sole occupants of the library this afternoon. The latter busies himself with three books and a crudely sewn journal, feverishly note taking. This is the most awake he has ever seen his classmate, eyes gleaming like a bow point as he jots on the parchment. If he ever looked at a person like that, he’s bound to ensnare- but that is no thought to entertain in the middle of homework.

“Linhardt,” Ferdinand hazards, and is met with restrained irritation. “Have you done your assignment? That certainly doesn’t appear to be what the professor gave us to study.”

“Yes,” he answers, monosyllabic, then returns to his work.

“...May I see what you are engrossed in?” he pushes further. 

Linhardt raises an eyebrow, but acquiesces. “People do all sorts of self soothing tics with their hands, and I thought it would be an efficient communication tool to make a language that passes as fidgeting to the outside viewer.”

He brightens at Ferdinand’s interest, and that alone is enough to spurn on more questions. “Well. That sounds fascinating in theory, but how would that take place in practice?”

As it turns out, his companion is all too eager to demonstrate. “Ideally, you’d be facing each other.” Linhardt starts, folding his hands together. He crooks his index finger. “I figure this should stand for man, and should look like tapping. Index and middle raised would be horse, and index and pinky would be pegasus. You’d do it with while talking about something inane with your mouth, and using the other hand for other factors like measurements and distance.”

“Would you use the right hand for subjects and the left for actions?” Ferdinand suggests, genuinely intrigued.

“I gathered as much,” Linhardt says with a nod. “It’s not going to be as expansive as sign language that already exists in certain territories. It would likely be limited to espionage purposes, and while traveling in enemy lands.”

“You should apply yourself more,” he recommends. “You’re very bright.”

The response is a theatrical yawn. “I appreciate the flattery, but I prefer to conserve my energy when possible.”

Ferdinand pauses. He is beginning to suspect that Linhardt’s tiredness is some sort of medical condition, given how often he sleeps already. Maybe it’s poor sleep quality, or anxiety- the latter doesn’t seem to be a possibility, given his calm demeanor. Still-

“How is the valerian?”

“Two grams before bedtime, except on weekends,” he answers, monotone.

“Does it work?”   
  
“Not well.”

Linhardt continues to write. 

“...May I be of assistance?”

“You’re welcome to help me exhaust more options. In any case, your unexpected concern for my well being is touching, and I’m grateful. Most dismiss this as laziness.” He smiles, lopsided and somehow weary. Ferdinand’s back jerks straight with a brief palm on his shoulder, surprised at the touch.

“No need. May I ask, how does it feel like?”

The other pauses; rubs his head and folds books closed with a quiet hand. “Like catching sand with a sieve. I can sleep all I like, and I never feel fully rested. I just consider weariness as a natural trait at this point.”

_ Are you unhappy? _ Ferdinand wants to ask, but knows to bite his tongue.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says instead. Linhardt nods, then closes his eyes.

* * *

Nutritional deficiency is the first to investigate. Everyone in the monastery more or less eats the same thing, and lunches with Linhardt doesn’t seem to leave out anything vital in his plate. He questions Manuela about health concerns and she rattles on about absorption rates, different tolerances, and morale. Ferdinand hesitates at the last point, and Manuela can only laugh, pitying.

“Find a tolerable vice and die with it,” she says, distinctly unprofessional. “Preferably something healthy for you.”

Linhardt eats when he remembers, and gets less than ideal, but enough physical activity. He doesn’t seem tortured, and glides along his classes like a piece of driftwood that doesn’t sink. A silent illness would not have gone unnoticed, let alone for so long, so perhaps the fatigue is psychological.

Ferdinand doesn’t bring it up when they eat lunch together, though Linhardt seems better rested today, talking animatedly about the malleability of human memory in between bites. Every fourth word goes over Ferdinand’s head, but he offers his ear anyway.

It occurs to Ferdinand, suddenly and sharply, that Linhardt never mentions his family, which is odd for a noble. The knowledge is somehow worse than being unarmed with information.

“Ferdinand? Are you listening?” 

A hand gingerly rests on his shoulder. Ferdinand stares blankly at it like a deer in the headlights, then at Linhardt’s furrowed brows.

“Of course. It’s difficult information to process, is all. I apologize.”

The answer seems to satisfy. At the end of the meal, he reminds his companion to remember to eat. Linhardt dismisses him as a worrying hen, but the smile on his lips say otherwise.

* * *

“Are you happy?” Linhardt asks him in a dream later that night. The sky is wine dark and heavy with the promise of rain. He presses his palms on Ferdinand’s hair and buries fingers there, smiling.

“Of course I am! Why shouldn’t I be?”

“A tolerable vice, then.” The water rises to meet them. Linhardt covers his mouth with his own, and the waves wash them both away.

* * *

He knocks in Linhardt’s door first thing in the morning to suggest a nightly spar for excellent rest by bedtime. Green strands hang loose on the bedside table, nursing a cup of coffee drowned in powdered creamer.

“Hubert’s suggestion?” Ferdinand asks. 

Linhardt nods, and adds two helpings of sugar. “I bet it would taste divine cold, with some dash of imported cacao.”

“That’s… a wild stretch from how it’s usually served.”

He slides a finger by the rim of the cup and casts a minuscule cold wind spell to stir the liquid. Ferdinand feels the chill from the distance between them, and nearly steps back when his companion offers him the cup.

“If it turns out decent, you owe me.”

“That’s hardly-” he starts, but Linhardt pushes the cup to his lips. It’s good, actually. Refreshing, especially for someone who normally loathes coffee. “Fine. What do I owe you?”

“Ask Bernadetta to draw the diagrams for my shorthand,” he says, then downs the rest of the cup.

“That’s quite a bit of work.” The vocabulary of his coded language has significantly grown since its first inception, robust enough for the field. Illustrations could take weeks, not including the added workload from school and skirmishes.   
  
“You’ll think of something.”

“If I succeed, you’ll have to spar with me whenever I ask until its completion.”

Linhardt snorts. “Excuse me?”

“It will help you sleep,” Ferdinand says with a grin.

Bernadetta, it turns out, accepts payments in sweets, and Ferdinand becomes halfway competent at pastries with the help of Mercedes within the span of roughly a week. He presents the first five pages to Linhardt with their reclusive classmate in the library together. Bernadetta fidgets uncomfortably as clever eyes scan her work.

"These are wonderfully drawn," Linhardt says with a subdued awe.

"You really think so?" she says, shoulders relaxing at the praise. "I didn't expect anyone to actually like the silly things I did."

"Neither did I.”

Ferdinand watches silently as they exchange kind words, content. Bernadetta opens her bag as though smuggling contraband, pulling out two pastries. Linhardt eyes them in surprise, and Ferdinand frantically waves his hands at the rule breaking.

"No food in the library!"

Didn't he just bake those last night? The two ignore his advice as they share the pieces. Pride surges in him at their pleased expressions, but still. No food in the library. What of the crumbs? Oh. Linhardt is using a wind spell as a vacuum of sorts to sweep stray flakes into a kerchief.

“Ferdinand, you are a noble of many talents.” 

Bernadetta nods in agreement, the last of the sweets safely in their bellies. He doesn’t have it in him to chastise them, especially not after the flattery. The three gather together to fine tune the last string of symbols, and, like a dissipating chill, the young man feels a weight lifting from him he didn’t even realize was there.

* * *

They lay together by a meadow on the outskirts of the monastery. Or rather, Linhardt lays, while the other rests his back on a tree, soothed by the soft parade of the stream. Ferdinand is prudent enough pack lunch for them both, because all his companion bothered to bring are books. A breeze passes by. Linhardt sits up to braid his hair because the sides have grown to a disagreeable length and he can’t be bothered to trim it. He starts to hum a familiar song, startling Ferdinand from his lull.

“Lin-” he starts, and falters.

“You’ve heard this before.”

“I was passing through. I am sorry. I didn’t intend to intrude on your privacy.”

A warm laugh for a reply only warrants more questions. “It’s not a big deal. I had a nurse from Duscur who used to sing to me when I was young. I remember the melody, and the phonetic phrasing, but I don’t know what the words mean.”

Ferdinand tries to grasp the intentions of memorizing something by heart without understanding it, but quickly draws parallels to prayers to the goddess drilled into him as a child, before understanding the importance of devotion. Or the importance of being a good noble to set an example to commoners, without understanding what signifies the distinction other than title and owned property. Or not understanding why his eyes are drawn to the peek of Linhardt’s pale neck, laid bare by the plait wound into a clean bun above his nape.

_ It’s lovely, _ he wants to say, but his teeth clasp together behind his lips.

“Have you considered asking Dedue what it means?”

“It wouldn’t exactly be the most ideal conversation starter for someone one barely knows.”

“Fair.” Ferdinand laces idle fingers together as his friend lays back down. “You haven’t eaten.”

“Sorry. I was distracted.” Linhardt immediately corrects this by digging into their lunch basket for cheese and bread, like a reprimanded child. 

He waits for the other to finish eating and gathers up the nerve to ask him to sing. Linhardt smiles at the request, and faint wind teases stray locks out from behind his ear when the melody begins.

It’s much, much, better than hearing it from behind a door. 

* * *

Hubert implements Linhardt’s gestural language within the first few years of the Empire’s campaign. It makes for more effective infiltration, and they limit teaching it to all but proven loyalists to mitigate damage. Bernadetta offers an alternate code involving flower pins and bouquets for instances when personal meetings prove too dangerous, and both languages become mandatory learning material when traveling higher up the ranks.

Ferdinand skips on them, having aided the two in their inventions from their school days. It still chills him to hear the announcement of casualties, spoken in a code they penned while smuggling edible contraband in the upper level of the library in what seems like eternities ago. He eases the thought with an insistence that their cleverness has prevented even more lives from being taken, but it does not push the discomfort away.

“It’s bollocks. All of it,” Linhardt hisses in a tub while Ferdinand cleans a wound between his shoulder blades. They are days away from their return to the monastery, holed up in an inn after an unfortunate bout of carelessness. “Edelgard wishes to replace rule of the nobility with rule of people she finds agreeable. She even offered me a place in crest research. Imagine.”

“Why are you still here, then?” he counters. He asks this of himself sometimes, in darker days. Edelgard is well intentioned, but her path is narrow and lined with bones.

Linhardt laughs like a man hollowed out, but does not reply. He buries his head in pruning palms while Ferdinand stitches his injuries together with inferior magic. They both know the answer to this question, but neither of them have words for it.   
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Written while repeatedly listening to Agnes Obel's [The Curse.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6h9XUYj96ho)
> 
> This was a request.


End file.
